


Vigil

by MirrorMystic



Series: Those Who Carry The Flame [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Drama, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: “She’s gonna wake up soon,” Mika sighs into my throat.“She’d better,” I say, managing a smile. “We’ve got work to do.”Mika doesn’t want to let me go. I don’t, either. The house is quiet, cold, and dark, save for the fragile light of the candles I’ve put up. Mika is a flame in my hands. She’s loud, and warm, and alive.





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from Tumblr; originally written 2/17/17.

~*~  
  
Who bears the power to set souls ablaze?  
  
Is it the saint, ablaze like a second sun? Is it the hero, aglow with the bonfire of their own fame? Is it the mentor, a lantern lighting the way? Is it ancestry, tradition, and legacy, the glow of distant stars lingering after they’ve gone out?  
  
The fire of courage burns in all these honored places. But so, too, does it burn among simpler, smaller things- like a promise made, one hand in another, or a candle at a bedside.  
  
There are tales there, too, ones worthy of telling.  
  
This is a tale of courage and candlelight- a tale of those who carry the flame…  
  
~*~

  
_Twenty years ago, war came to my planet. And then, just as suddenly, it left- leaving behind a horde of mindless ghouls in our streets, and a sandstorm that never ends.  
  
My friends and I are the first generation born into this ravaged world- a world where monsters roam the streets and pockets of humanity hold on to what safe zones they can. Somehow, we manage to scrape a living. It’s not an easy life; but it’s not all bad, either.  
  
Twenty years ago, the sky fell in, and monsters descended upon us, but the world did not end. We’re still here, despite everything. We’ve made it this far. And we’ll make it further.  
  
My name is Yasmin Quintana, and this wretched world hasn’t killed us yet.  
  
Today is a new day.  
  
Let’s survive._  
  
~*~  
  
Last night, a new star lit up the sky and forced away the gloom. A pillar of white light surged up out of the earth and into the heavens, throwing aside the sandstorm that had plagued our planet for the last twenty years. Every ghoul for miles around was annihilated on the spot. For one night, at least, there was a place on Demeter outside a Halo where the air was free and clear.  
  
Everyone who’d gone on that expedition told the same story, and though some were more reluctant than others, they still came to the same conclusion:  
  
Eliza was truly her mother’s daughter. Eliza had performed a miracle.  
  
Though the pillar of light dissipated in minutes, and the sandstorm slowly began to filter back in over the uncovered plains, the light of Eliza’s miracle suffused the air with a lingering glow.  
  
Like Eliza, I, too, am making my own light. But not by anything nearly so dramatic as working miracles; I’m getting by with a matchbox and a drawer’s worth of candles.  
  
The Halo looms above us. On another day, the Halo could have shone bright enough and clear enough that one might almost think it were moonlight; but not today. In the wake of Eliza’s miracle, the sandstorm had resumed, howling stronger than ever, as if making up for lost time. It scrapes and spatters at the Halo’s bluish-white flame, the barrier flickering and guttering like candles in a strong breeze.  
  
I light a last candle, and set it on the nightstand. Standing beside it is a framed pict of Eliza. It was taken years ago, back when she was just- cliched as it sounds- the girl next door. She’s wearing a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat. Standing behind her, with his hand on her shoulder, was a man, hollow-eyed, forcing a smile for the camera. Her father, Jean Beauchene.  
  
Eliza’s mother, for whom she was named, passed away at the very end of the war. Eliza was only a baby at the time. It was the death that would make Elizabeth Beauchene famous- the sacrifice that canonized her as the Saint.  
  
Jean Beauchene was never the same after his wife’s passing, exalted as it may have been.  
  
His grief killed him slowly- a death by inches. Until one day, after spending nine years a widower, Jean Beauchene walked into the sandstorm and was never seen again.  
  
A decade later, and Eliza followed her father’s footsteps out into the long dark, with our friend Miki Shimizu and a squad of PDF troopers in tow.  
  
“Bring her back to me,” I asked him. I had hoped Miki would keep his promise.  
  
But not like this. Not like this.  
  
The candlelight fills our house with a warm but eerie serenity. The candle shines on her nightstand, so like an altar, flickering across the faces of ghosts trapped in the picture frame.  
  
Eliza lays sleeping through all of this, hair fanning around her like a crown, hands clasped across her stomach in a funereal calm. I reach forward, laying my hand on hers. Her fingers are cold; her pulse, thready and faint.  
  
Eliza is framed like a classical painting, bright light and deep shadow. The Halo’s bluish white light falls across her left side; the warm glow of the candle cast across her right. I sit in the darkness between, rubbing warmth into her fingers, clutching her heartbeat.  
  
“You’re here,” I whisper. Eliza’s life pulses in my hands.  
  
“You made it.”  
  
~*~  
  
_I am chasing Eliza through a garden, surrounded by high hedges and archways of climbing ivy. The hedges paint stripes across the ground, bands of bright sunlight cut through with deep shadow. Up ahead, Eliza is laughing, calling for me. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat, and dressed all in white-_  
  
I snap awake, registering three things in quick succession: one, the candle is still burning; two, the alarm clock isn’t working because the power’s still out; and three, Eliza isn’t awake.  
  
I sigh, reaching forward and smoothing her hair across her scalp. She’s so peaceful in her sleep. I have to stop myself from thinking “peaceful in death”. She’s just sleeping. That’s all. That’s what I have to believe.  
  
Somebody’s at the door. I get up and stretch, rolling my neck. Sleeping in a chair is murder on your joints. I limp to the door, my knees and shoulders aching.  
  
It’s Mika, less smiley than I’m used to, moreso because she doesn’t have her dour brother for comparison.  
  
“Good morning,” she chirps, trying for chipper despite everything.  
  
“Morning,” I say. “How’s your brother?”  
  
Mika shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. Sleepy. How’s Eliza?”  
  
“…Well,” I exhale, aiming for levity, “it wouldn’t be the first time we were late for bell service because Eliza slept in.”  
  
Mika makes a face. “You, uh, missed the whole thing, actually.”  
  
“Whoops. The Professor won’t be happy.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Mika waves the thought away. “He missed it, too. Can I come in?”  
  
“Uh- sure,” I step aside.  
  
Our little one-story bungalow is pretty modest, as far as places go. A few couches in one corner, a little kitchen tucked into another, and my and Eliza’s bedrooms in the other two.  
  
Mika flops down onto a couch in what passes for our living room. She scans the room, nodding appraisingly.  
  
“I like what you’ve done to the place,” she says, eyeing the- perhaps excessive- candles arrayed throughout the house.  
  
“Sorry,” I apologize, reflexively. “Halo-light wasn’t cutting it. And, besides, I… I needed-”  
  
“Something to do with your hands?” Mika smiles knowingly. “I get you.”  
  
I smile. I can’t help myself. With Mika, these things are contagious.  
  
“Should I be getting dressed for work?” I ask.  
  
“No patrol today,” Mika says. “Commander Singh gave us the day off. Miki and Eliza could use the breather, and the Professor’s busy with the girl they picked up yesterday.”  
  
I look up. “What girl?”  
  
“Didn’t you hear?” Mika leans in and lowers her voice, like a kid with the newest gossip. “The expedition was attacked by a daemon.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Mmhmm. Not some bottom-rung ghoul. The real deal. Horns. Hooves. I tell you, she’s built like a truck and looks like she’s made of rocks. People are saying Eliza saved her soul.”  
  
I make a face. “What does that even mean?”  
  
Mika shrugs. “Who knows? Eliza did her white light majesty thing, and the daemon wasn’t vaporized like every other ghoul around. She just passed out. The Professor’s at the Association now, waiting for her to wake up.”  
  
Not unlike myself and Eliza, I suppose. The thought buzzes in my head. I flex my fingers, fidgeting.  
  
“This is heavy stuff,” Mika muses. “This is some ‘only say the word and I shall be healed’ stuff.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” I say, harsher than I intend. “Eliza’s just… Eliza. Don’t put her up on an altar. It’s bad enough she has to see her mother up there.”  
  
“Yasmin, look at her,” Mika says, graver than I’m used to hearing her. “She created a new Halo over the generator station. She supposedly freed the mind of a daemon from its masters. She wiped out more ghouls in a single instant than we’ve probably done in our whole career as Hunters. She _parted the sandstorm_ , even if for just a little bit. And she’s the daughter of the woman who could do all that and more.”  
  
“Look at what it cost!” I snap. “Her mother _died_ doing all that, remember?”  
  
“She died to save us, Yasmin.”  
  
“Eliza’s not a savior!” I say, my jaw tight. “She’s not a hero, or a martyr, or a legend! She’s just a _person_. She just wants to be a _person_!”  
  
“I know,” Mika says softly. “But what if this town- this world- needs _more_ than a person?”  
  
~*~  
  
Mika’s question lingered as uncomfortably in the air as she did on my couch. In her anxiety, Mika turned to small talk. How was your day? How about that weather, huh? This is hardly news to her- Mika sees me pretty much every day, so she knows exactly how my days have been- but I suppose it never hurts to ask.  
  
Mika has a habit of talking through her discomfort. Our anxiety fills us in different ways- Eliza in her thoughts, mine in my hands. Mika’s anxiety escapes through her mouth.  
  
Times like these, you have to look past the words. Mika’s chattering at me, and honestly, I’m not really listening. But she leans her head against my shoulder, by way of apology, and I understand. She burrows into my arm, so like a child despite her military uniform. I sigh, reaching out and smoothing her hair against her scalp.  
  
“Can I see her?” She murmurs into my neck. All I can do is nod.  
  
Eliza looks exactly as she did earlier this morning. She’s laying in bed, perfectly still save for the faintest rise and fall of her chest, framed by Halo-light and candlelight, her hands clasped across her stomach in funereal calm.  
  
Mika stands, staring, her voice stolen away by the somber quiet. She works her jaw, faltering.  
  
“She’s…” She swallows. “She’s so… peaceful.”  
  
I wince at her choice of words. Mika gently touches Eliza’s clasped hands, bowing her head, as if in prayer.  
  
“Eliza,” she murmurs, “Eliza. It’s me. It’s M- Mika.”  
  
I can’t help myself. Eliza in bed, silent and still, surrounded by candles, her portrait on her nightstand lit up like an altar. It’s too much. I gasp, choking out a sob.  
  
Mika’s eyes dart to me, then back to Eliza again. She quickly changes tack.  
  
“You’re late for work again, Eliza,” Mika chirps. “Sleeping in all the time. That’s a bad habit, you know that?”  
  
She gives Eliza’s hand a squeeze, before turning to me. She practically jumps into my arms, throwing her arms around my neck. I hug her tight, blinking away stray tears.  
  
“She’s gonna wake up soon,” Mika sighs into my throat.  
  
“She’d better,” I say, managing a smile. “We’ve got work to do.”  
  
Mika doesn’t want to let me go. I don’t, either. The house is quiet, cold, and dark, save for the fragile light of the candles I’ve put up. Mika is a flame in my hands. She’s loud, and warm, and alive.  
  
Something buzzes against Mika’s thigh. We part, reluctantly, as she fishes her comm out of her pocket. She glances at it and rolls her eyes.  
  
“That’s my dad,” she sighs. “I gotta get home.”  
  
“Okay,” I nod.  
  
“Listen, if you need anything, just give me a call.”  
  
I pull my comm out of my pocket and click a few buttons on it uselessly.  
  
“…Uh,” I grin, sheepish. “Comm’s dead. Power’s out.”  
  
“I’m right down the street, doofus.”  
  
Mika pulls me in and holds me tight. She’s blessedly warm.  
  
“Yell, if you have to,” Mika smiles. “I’ll come running.”  
  
~*~  
  
_I’m chasing after Eliza in the hedge maze, white butterflies flitting past. There are three women at the end of the path. A woman in white, blindfolded, golden hair blazing like a crown. A woman in black, a snake slithering out of her sleeve, a tattoo of an ankh falling from her eye like a teardrop. A woman robed in brown, hooded and cloaked, a book clutched to her chest…_  
  
I snore loud enough to wake myself up. I sit up, the image of the three women lingering ghostlike on the inside of my eyelids. I blink the dream away. There’s only one woman I have eyes for.  
  
And she’s not awake. Not yet.  
  
Eliza stirs in her sleep, just so. Her breathing deepens, and she shifts onto her side.  
  
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A wave of relief floods through my body.  
  
This is the Eliza I know. The girl half-buried in her pillow, hair all over the place, cast in the warm glow of candlelight. Not the cold, pale visage fit to be carved in marble. Not the shadow of a girl, hands crossed over her stomach, laid out as if for burial.  
  
I brush my knuckles against Eliza’s cheek, feel her breath ghost across my skin.  
  
“Come here,” I whisper. “Come home.”  
  
A chill passes over me. An image of the woman in black flickers across my mind’s eye.  
  
I stand up abruptly, scraping back my chair. My knees protest horribly, and I almost sit down again. I stagger to the kitchen, pushing away the vivid imagery of my dream, of two women I thought I should know and a third who was unmistakable.  
  
I’m not really into interpreting dreams, but the ones I’ve been having today just won’t let me go. The hedge maze, the three women, Eliza all in white…  
  
I slap my hands on the counter. Enough! I’m not going to let these things bother me. I can’t worry if I’m too busy working. And here, at the sink, my sanctuary, I have everything I need to keep my mind from wandering too far.  
  
I plug the drain, and start filling the sink. I toss the bottle of dish soap between my hands, determined to keep myself occupied. It’s homemade; Mom showed me how. Not because we were a big DIY family (although we certainly were), but because Elk Lake didn’t have the infrastructure to make the store brand stuff.  
  
I start wishing dishes, and put my mind at ease. I joke about it, but washing dishes really is my meditation. Because if I’m going to clear my mind or whatever, I might as well get some chores done.  
  
Time ambles by in peace and quiet. The squeak of suds on porcelain is a strangely relaxing sound. Warm orange candlelight mingles with the cool, pale blue of the Halo outside. I stand there in the twilight, pouring my worries into the soothing tedium of housework.  
  
Eliza’s snoring. That’s what she gets for sleeping on her face. The sound of it makes me smile, strange as that sounds. I can hear her life in every breath, every snuffle, every snort as she tousles the sheets. I’m grateful for her snoring. It’s just so… ordinary. A mundane reminder that she’s still here; she’s still home.  
  
My lips curl into a frown, feeling the onset of a sudden melancholy. ‘The nightly melancholy’, Eliza calls it. I’d say it was here early, but I didn’t actually know the time- the power was out, and so was our clock.  
  
I set my jaw and focus on the plate in my hands, hoping I can wipe away my encroaching anxiety with some vigorous scrubbing. But then there’s a sound from the street- a sharp, shrill sound that pricks my ears and makes the plate slip from my hands and slosh into the water.  
  
An alarm whistle. A _Hunter’s_ alarm whistle.  
  
I’m at the door in an instant, throwing it open so quickly it makes our outer screen door rattle. I hear the call again: three long blasts in succession. I pull my own alarm whistle out from under my shirt and answer with two short chirps. Half a dozen paired chirps sound from the surrounding blocks.  
  
Three long, echo two. Three long blasts at the point of origin to signal an alert; two short chirps to acknowledge the call, let the spotter know if any backup’s nearby, and to tell everybody else to get inside and lock their doors.  
  
I’m a Hunter, which means holing up indoors during an alert is the last thing I ought to be doing. I yank my jacket off its hook, pull my machete out of our umbrella rack, and I’m out the door.  
  
It’s warmer than it has been for the past few days. Unfortunately, all that means is that three days’ worth of snow is transforming into three days’ worth of slush. The alert sounds again, three long whistle blasts. It’s close; maybe a block away. I turn towards the sound, picking my way through the snow.  
  
Magic simmers beneath my skin, filling me with the heat of adrenaline. It builds in my legs, my hands, manifesting as swirling black smoke, eager to be put to use.  
  
No more worrying. No more moping around. Finally, a chance to do something useful.  
  
My strides grow longer, more confident, heedless of the icy pavement. I break into a jog, then a run, building up speed, trailing darkness in my wake. I race down the street like a comet.  
  
I see them. Six ghouls, milling dumbly around the base of a tree, groping upwards at some poor Hunter standing among the branches. The Hunter hefts an aluminum baseball bat over his shoulder, looking down at the throng of ghouls, his worry hidden beneath a mask of annoyance. He raises his whistle to his lips and blasts out the call again.  
  
I don’t bother to echo the call. He knows damn well that I’m coming.  
  
I charge down the street, wreathed in black smoke. Magic gathers in my legs and I pounce, rocketing forward on a plume of inky darkness.  
  
A ghoul turns around and looks at me with its dumb, milky-white eyes. I smash its skull between the heel of my boot and the tree trunk behind it, my magic empowering my kick with the strength to shatter bone. The tree shudders with the impact, the Hunter above me scrambling to keep his footing.  
  
I push off the tree with my heel, striking another ghoul in the jaw with an empowered roundhouse kick. He staggers back into a trio of his brethren, giving me some breathing room.  
  
My magic thrums in the air, prickling my senses. I spin around and draw my machete in one smooth motion. The ghoul coming up behind me loses a hand at the wrist- and soon after, more than that. Magic surges through my arms and I cleave the ghoul in two, diagonally, from shoulder to hip, ribcage be damned. A ghastly mist explodes out of the wound as the ghoul’s halves crunch down onto the street.  
  
I can feel my magic bleeding off of me like heat into a blizzard. Every second, my breathing gets more ragged, and my limbs feel heavier. Even so, I hear a whistle from above me- not the shrill shriek of a Hunter’s alarm whistle, but one of a frat boy watching the big game.  
  
I smile, tinged with pride, despite everything. But the moment is short-lived.  
  
I swivel at the waist, narrowly avoiding a ghoul’s lunge. A second one uncoils its legs and pounces at me. I slap it away with a chop of my machete, but its filthy nails catch on my jacket and yank me down, my boots slipping in the slush. I hit the ground hard, the wind smashed out of my lungs.  
  
“Whoa! Hey!” The Hunter calls after me in alarm, jumping down from his perch. The ghoul that lunged past me rises up to meet him, foam spotting its lips. He cracks it across the jaw, managing to send it sprawling down the street. Not long after, he’s grabbed from behind by two other ghouls, clawing at the fabric of his old varsity jacket.  
  
Idly, I muse that it can’t have been his jacket- he didn’t look any older than I was, and Elk Lake was hardly a campus town. With the Halo hemming us in and the sandstorm raging outside, it’s not like he could have gone to university.  
  
It’s not like I have time to ponder hand-me-downs, however. I’m laying on the street, struggling with a ghoul who’s got its claws in my jacket. I stomp on its shoulder and tear myself free, wincing at the scratch down my bicep I earn in the process. I kick it in the head, sliding it across the wet, dirty snow.  
  
My breath comes in ragged gasps. I’m tired. More than I realize.  
  
Damn it. I burnt up my magic killing those first two ghouls, and me and Mr. Baseball Bat are still outnumbered two-to-one.  
  
A ghoul grabs me by the leg, and yanks. I lose my footing on the slush, slipping and banging my knee on the pavement. I swear in pain, kicking uselessly at the ghoul’s chest. The ghoul groans at me, treacly black blood drooling down an open, broken jaw. The Hunter’s swing wasn’t quite a home run, and I don’t have enough magic left to finish the job. The ghoul rears back…  
  
Mika is at my side in a flash of green, plunging her knife into the ghoul’s mouth. The blade breaks the ghoul’s front teeth and stabs into the roof of its mouth. It groans dumbly, gagging on the knife. Mika pries the ghoul off of me and drags it to its feet with a grunt of effort. She punches her blade forward, tearing out the ghoul’s cheek in a spatter of gore.  
  
Mika crouches over me as the ghoul falls into a heap, one hand clutching her knife, the other on my shoulder. The other ghoul leaps at us, its maw open wide. Mika stabs her blade up through its jaw, pinning its mouth shut. Momentum carries the ghoul past us, ripping Mika’s knife from her hands. It lands on the street like so much dead weight, a knife through its jaw and up in its brain.  
  
On the sidewalk, the Hunter is struggling with two ghouls, one clinging to his jacket, the other to his leg. Every time he manages to bat one away, the other gets too close for comfort. He jabs the one around his knees with the pommel of his bat, finally managing to kick it away.  
  
A wall of blue light appears in the air, separating the two ghouls. The Hunter blinks, before deciding not to question his good fortune. He pins his assailant against the wall with his heel, smashing its face in with a crack of his bat. The barrier dissipates, and he’s free to focus on the last one. He smashes the ghoul in the legs, knocking it to its knees on the sidewalk. Then he winds up, and knocks it out of the park- the ghoul’s head flies off of its crumpled body and goes sailing down the street.  
  
Miki’s standing on the curb, his hands still shimmering with residual magic. The Hunter nods at him in appreciation, before turning to Mika and I.  
  
“You guys alright?” He asks.  
  
I get to my feet, shaky, my right knee throbbing. I wince, but I nod. Mika quietly lends me her shoulder.  
  
“That was some fancy stuff you did,” the Hunter says.  
  
“Thanks,” I reply. “That was a pretty good swing, yourself.”  
  
There are a pair of short whistle blasts. A man comes up the street, wearing the wheat-gold uniform of Demeter PDF. The Hunter with us stands awkwardly to attention.  
  
“Are you kids alright?” The trooper asks. He surveys the corpses of the ghouls on the ground, nodding appreciatively. He turns back to regard us. “Who called in the alert?”  
  
“I did, sir,” the Hunter says, stiff.  
  
“Well, it looks like you all took care of things just fine,” the trooper grins. He reaches up and keys in his earpiece. “Stand down alert in central; six kills confirmed, no losses. Stand down alert.”  
  
He raises his whistle to his lips and blows- one long blast. We all do the same, and soon the surrounding streets are ringing with the signal for all clear.  
  
The trooper departs. The Hunter follows him, tipping his bat to us in goodbye.  
  
Now it’s just me and the Shimizus. Mika gently lowers me down and I take a seat on the curb, massaging my aching knee. Mika and Miki join me on either side.  
  
“Are you okay?” I ask Miki. He blinks at me, dubious.  
  
“Am _I_ okay? You’re the one who’s hurt,” he says.  
  
“What?” I ask, then notice him eyeing my sleeve. “Oh. It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”  
  
“It’s not nothing,” Miki says, rummaging through his pack. “It has to be cleaned properly. You don’t want fabric getting in the wound.”  
  
I open my mouth to reply, but there’s no sense in arguing. Miki’s already pulling out gauze and disinfectant. I sigh, pulling my arm out of my sleeve and letting him patch me up. I’m still riding the heat of battle, and I have friends on either side. My arm is bare, but I scarcely feel the cold.  
  
“We saw you come charging in, all full of magic,” Mika says.  
  
“For all the good that did me,” I shrug. “Ran out of juice too quick.”  
  
“Still, running to an alert like that,” Mika beamed. “What a hero.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, what about you?” I shove Mika in the shoulder. “I fall on my ass like an idiot, and then you come in and stab the hell out of two ghouls.”  
  
“I _am_ pretty awesome,” Mika admits. Miki rolls his eyes.  
  
“Pull more stunts like that,” I tease, “and I just might fall in love.”  
  
“I wish,” Mika scoffs. “There’s only one girl for you.”  
  
The realization comes to me like a slap in the face. Eliza! I have to-  
  
“Easy,” Miki says, as he pulls me back down. Pain flares through my knee, protesting my impulse to suddenly jump to my feet.  
  
“She’s fine,” Mika says. “We just gave the all-clear, remember?”  
  
I take a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. Mika smiles at me. I can’t help but smile back.  
  
“Right,” I nod. “She’s all right.”  
  
“She has to be,” Miki says, matter-of-factly, tying off the gauze around my arm. “She has you.”  
  
“Come on,” Mika says, putting my arm around her shoulder and easing me to my feet. “We’ll bring you home.”  
  
~*~  
  
_The hedge maze transforms into hardwood floors, the three women looming as portraits in cut glass. There is no roof; the cosmos stretch out above us, stars glittering like diamonds. A boy stands at the altar, wooden beads around his neck. He is wreathed in an aura of azure flame, and at the very edges of the fire, the licking flames rise up and become white butterflies, flitting away into the void.  
  
Eliza stops before the altar, then turns, waiting for me to join her. I reach out my hand…_  
  
I wake up to candlelight and Eliza’s serene, sleeping form.  
  
The image of the boy at the altar lingers behind my eyes, crowned with blue fire, surrounded by white butterflies. He feels strangely familiar, as if he’s someone I should remember, like a relative you met at a party when you were just a kid.  
  
I vaguely remember Mika and Miki bringing me home after the alert. Trudging through the slush with a bum knee wasn’t fun. And it went by a lot slower without my magic to speed me along.  
  
Compared to the vivid imagery of the boy and the butterflies, the walk home went by in a blur.  
  
My body remembers, though. I’m aching all over, and my limbs feel like dead weight. And- since I no doubt insisted on staying in the chair by Eliza’s bed so I could check on her right away- my legs were killing me. Dozing off in an armchair certainly wasn’t going to do my right knee any favors.  
  
I massage the pins and needles from my legs, and rise, unsteady, to my feet. I reach down and brush my knuckles across Eliza’s cheek. She’s warmer, now, and breathing more evenly. I exhale in silent relief.  
  
“You little brat,” I smile. “You’re just gonna sleep all day?”  
  
I know I wouldn’t mind sleeping all day. Charging down that hill suped up with dark magic might have felt exhilarating at the time, but now I’m exhausted. Using that much magic took a lot out of me. Maybe that’s exactly what happened with Eliza, come to think of it. She created her own Halo and put too much of herself into it.  
  
I shake the thought from my head. I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want to worry. I want to work. And, surely, there’s more work to do around here.  
  
I start sorting laundry, just to give my hands something to do. Four piles- clean, semi-clean, dirty, and ruined. Strict water rationing means the average citizen of Elk Lake only gets to do laundry once a month. Hunters get the privilege of going every other week- but, then again, we tend to have dirtier clothes. And conserving water means not splitting up batches by color, so a lot of our clothes get muddy and faded over time.  
  
Bad news for Eliza, who looks lovely in white.  
  
There’s a tap on the screen door, and I get up, knees protesting.  
  
Waiting at the doorstep is the Professor, framed by the Halo’s perpetual twilight. A large box sat at his feet.  
  
“Package for you,” he says, amicably. “Can I come in?”  
  
“Sure, sure,” I say, welcoming him inside.  
  
He taps his cane on the ground. The box’s shadow lifts it up on spindly, spider-like legs. It scuttles inside, dropping the box down beside the kitchen table, before drawing its legs back into itself and becoming an ordinary shadow again.  
  
The heavy thump of the box on the floor is enough to make the nearby candles shiver. The Professor glances at the candles arrayed around the house, easing himself into an old armchair.  
  
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says.  
  
“You’re not the first,” I reply. “I take it the eggheads are still working on restoring power?”  
  
“There were… complications.” He must see the look on my face, because he waves away my concern. “You just let me worry about all that. The Commander says we should be back to full capacity by morning.”  
  
I shrug and murmur a non-reply, before turning my attention to the box he brought in with him.  
  
“Courtesy of your parents,” he says, before I need to ask. “They thought you might have used up your water ration and not have any left for cooking. Or drinking, for that matter. They were worried you might have used all your water on ‘stress relief’, whatever that means.”  
  
“Oh.” I glance at the sink, still full from before. “Thanks.”  
  
“Of course,” the Professor nods, as I start unpacking. “There’s firewood in there, too, not that you have a fireplace or wood-burning stove. I suppose it’d be nice for a campfire, if you’re feeling adventurous. And there’s-”  
  
“A whole thermal pack of my mother’s cooking?” I finish, an edge of excitement cutting through my exhaustion. I lift the thermal pack out and set it on the counter. I love my mother’s cooking. She taught me plenty, but there’s only so much I can do with a hot plate, a microwave, and no power. It’s always a treat to get something made in a proper kitchen.  
  
I peel back the foil on a plate and pop a slice of fried plantain into my mouth. The kiss of caramelized sugar is offset by the sharp ache in my stomach.  
  
“Your parents are worried you’re not eating,” the Professor chides.  
  
“I am,” I lie. I haven’t eaten all day. It just never crossed my mind. If not for the Professor coming by, I’m not sure it ever would have.  
  
“Yasmin,” the Professor says, rising from his seat. “Don’t let your worry for Eliza make you forget to take care of yourself.”  
  
Coming from my parents, I would have just brushed it off. But it felt different, coming from him.  
  
“I know,” I sigh.  
  
He nods, then tips his chin towards Eliza’s room. “May I see her?”  
  
I nod and usher him into Eliza’s room. The ache in my limbs just won’t go away- I slither into my chair at Eliza’s bedside, the Professor lingering in the doorway.  
  
Eliza looks like herself again, thank goodness. The color is back in her face, and her breathing is more even, more peaceful. I shudder at the memory of what she looked like just a day ago- pale, and thin, and cold.  
  
The Professor approaches Eliza’s bedside, obviously uncomfortable being in so private a space. He glances at me, a question in his eyes, and I nod. Gingerly, he takes hold of Eliza’s hand.  
  
He whispers an incantation under his breath, and lights swim beneath Eliza’s skin. Eliza’s Bracelet appears suspended around her wrist, a coiled ribbon of golden light. The Professor tils his head, makes a face, then lets her go, the Bracelet disappearing back into Eliza’s arm.  
  
“Just like her mother,” he murmurs, and I can’t tell if he’s wistful or worried.  
  
Any mention of the Saint puts Eliza on edge. But in this moment, my curiosity wins out.  
  
“Did you know her?”  
  
“Her mother?” The Professor glances at me, his expression clouding. “…We fought together. That’s hardly the same thing.”  
  
The Professor gets a far-off look in his eyes, instinctively reaching for the clasp of his cloak. The crest is a symbol that feels achingly familiar- a crescent, an orb, and three diamonds. I can’t quite place it. I shake the thought away.   
  
“People look at Eliza and they see another Saint in the making,” I say, the words bubbling out of me, unbidden, on a swell of anxiety. “They’re calling her trip to the power station a ‘miracle’. They don’t know her at all.”  
  
“People see what they want to see,” the Professor says. “If they want a Saint, they’ll have one.”  
  
I stare at him. “What are you saying? Are you saying Eliza’s mother wasn’t divine, after all?”  
  
“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter,” the Professor continues. “Divine or not, Elizabeth Beauchene ignited hope and courage in the people of this planet. In gratitude, they give her their faith. She gave her life- literally _gave her life_ \- to a planet that would have died, and instead stopped us right at the brink. Faith allowed us to endure what should have been the end of the world. Faith did that. Why argue the details?”  
  
“Because the details matter,” I cut in. “Because if Eliza’s mom was just an ordinary person and not some messiah, then the faith that keeps those people going is a sham.”  
  
“Is it?” the Professor asks. “Do they believe because she is a Saint and worth worshipping? Or is she the Saint _because_ they believe?”  
  
~*~  
  
The Professor excuses himself, leaving me to my thoughts. I know, I know: I don’t worry, I work. But there isn’t any work left to do in the house. Everything’s clean, neat and tidy. My mom cooked so much that we’re set for a week.  
  
There’s nothing left to do but think. Meditate. Pray.  
  
I’ve never been the most pious person around. I mean, I go to bell service like everyone else. But it’s awkward, holding Eliza’s mom up as a religious icon. What if _you_ had to go to service and worship _your_ in-laws? Awkward is an understatement.  
  
But the Professor’s words won’t let me go. Particularly the last thing he said, on his way out the door:  
  
_Be sure to get some sleep. You look terrible._  
  
Well, I did, admittedly. But what really stuck with me was what he said before that:  
  
_Love is an act of faith._  
  
I’m exhausted. I’ve been up ever since Eliza came back from her expedition, only dozing off here and there. It feels wrong to fall asleep before Eliza wakes up. That’s how these things work, right? I have to stay awake. I have to keep her vigil.  
  
But maybe the Professor’s right. It’s the faith that matters, not the ritual, not the details. It’s the faith, and what that faith does for you.  
  
_Love is an act of faith._  
  
I scarcely hit the pillow before exhaustion sweeps me away. I dive into sleep, and this time, I don’t dream.  
  
I don’t dream about the four figures- three women and the boy- that came to me in my snatches of stolen sleep throughout the day. It occurs to me, briefly, that I should have asked the Professor about the oddly familiar images- but that hardly matters now. The woman in white, who gave her life for the world. The woman in black, who walked with her down the sunless road. The woman in brown, who bore witness, and kept the story. The boy, trailing butterflies, who opened the door.  
  
Four gods. Four ghosts. Forgotten, now. Beyond the Cathedral, beyond the Maze…  
  
Sleep empties me, until I am as empty as I can be. There is nothing here. No worry. No pain.   
  
There is only light. Heat. And a voice, like a crackling fire.  
  
“Good morning.”  
  
I blink away the fog. My breath stops in my throat.  
  
“Eliza…!”  
  
I dive into her arms, holding her tight. She’s awake. God, she’s awake…!  
  
Before we know it, we’re both talking over each other, caught up in the euphoric rush of seeing each other again. We babble at each other, drown each other in the worries and fears and days of uncertainty, clearing away the clutter inside us and making room for blessed relief.  
  
There are schedules to keep, and meetings to plan, but I don’t care. My candles have all burned out, not making it through the night, but the Halo still shines outside, almost like a sun, and the blinking light of our alarm clock means the power is finally back online.  
  
“I was so scared,” I say, out loud for the first time since Eliza left two days ago.  
  
“I know,” Eliza coos into my neck, curled up on my lap. “You’re here. You made it.”  
  
I hold her tight, running my fingers through her hair- a mess, like usual. I’ll have to tame it for her later. I’m already looking forward to brushing and braiding it- something simple and blessedly mundane, not like sending her off into the unknown with a friend and a promise.  
  
Eliza’s hugging me so tightly I can feel her heart beating. She’s here. I can barely believe it. She’s here, and she’s a flame in my hands- bright, and warm, and alive.  
  
_Love is an act of faith._  
  
Here, coiled together with the girl I love most in this whole, wretched world, I realize:  
  
When Eliza and Miki set out to reclaim the power station on behalf of the city? That was love.  
  
When my parents invited everyone over and we gathered around the fireplace? _That was love._  
  
When Mika came to visit Eliza this morning, and joked about how she wasn’t in a coma, she was just late for work like always? When I was on the ropes with those ghouls, and that Hunter jumped down from his tree, baseball bat swinging? When Miki sat me down and patched up that scratch on my arm? When the Shimizus walked me home? When the Professor came by? When my parents were looking out for me? For us?  
  
_**That was love.**_  
  
The people of this town place their faith in Saint Elizabeth because she saved us twenty years ago. But we place our faith in each other, every day, because that’s how we endure. That’s how we make it through.  
  
Hope lit the flame, but love keeps it burning.  
  
Love is what keeps us alive.  
  
I hold Eliza to my chest, our lives entwined, laughing or crying, I can’t even tell. There’s a butterfly perched on our windowsill, pure white, glinting in the Halo’s glow. I watch it flit away, trailing flecks of blue fire. It shines in the light of my realization; like a star, or a candle, or a promise.  
  
~*~


End file.
